A yawning Satyr-a sketch detail from one of the new works, as good a point as any to state the years task ahead, or at least eight short months of it.
So-purgatory in Purgatorium- a year of dark intents, because the nights are already drawing in, the days longer with them-the stubble greying on my chinny chin chin.
At times each painting feels like a scab you long to pick at endlessly, except Septembers deadline spills in through the studio cracks, calling time before the year has begun,and as much as it's about the alchemy of drying paint right now, we're already hemorrhaging eight days into January, and I'm trying hard to keep my fevered brain on the now. Anything beyond feels intangible and full of unquantifiable possibility-maybe even disappointment.
Perhaps that is the Artists modus, the relentless need to create, to quell the endpoint, deafen the inevitable silence,fill in the gaps.
Except I can't think of that right now-I have dark intents.